The Soul Survivors Series Boxed Set

by Vella Munn

  Catching a sound that wasn't part of the wilderness, he stopped and cocked his head first one way and then the other. Voices. A glance at Gaitor reassured him that his friend had had the same thought.

  He began crawling again. When Gaitor first came to the Egret clan, he'd said it was demeaning for a man to slink through Piahokee like a snake, but he no longer did. An enemy with his eyes on what was around him seldom looked down at the ground.

  The closer they came to the creek, the more the stench of burning wood and fat increased. The army was preparing meat to eat. He wondered if it was one of the Turtle clan's few remaining cattle; the army didn't have many men who knew how to hunt a creature capable of running. Anger, and fear he couldn't deny, raced through him. He was glad Calida hadn't come with them; he didn't have to think about her, worry about her.

  Gaitor touched his ankle but didn't speak. Instead, the Negro rose to a crouch, every line of his body tense. Panther did the same; he heard hard laughter, an occasional whinny, hooves thudding on soft ground. And crying.

  He increased his concentration. Faint whimpering reached him, reminded him of the feel of shards of rain driven by an angry wind.

  "Children crying," he mouthed. "And women."

  Had the army found the Turtle clan? A moment ago he'd been sweating; now he turned cold. Gaitor watched him, silently asking what they should do, but Panther didn't have enough answers.

  Gesturing, he began crawling again. No one, not even Gaitor, would ever know this about the Egret clan's tastanagee, but at moments like this he felt sick. If the army had killed Seminoles and Negroes, he would spend the rest of his life asking if he couldn't have somehow prevented the slaughter. Others would tell him he was responsible only for his clan, that not even the great Osceola could protect everyone.

  But women and children were crying.

  Their sounds became even clearer, a murmur that reminded him of a limpkin's eerie call. Forcing himself, he eased aside the thick, heavy moss that surrounded him and peered at Hatcheelustee Creek. Fed by recent rains, the creek had escaped its banks and now flowed over the ground. Trees and brush growing nearby were surrounded by water. The army had camped on a high chunk of ground on the far side of the creek. He took note of the carelessly built campfire. Soldiers lounged around it. The horses had been tethered nearby and were being watched by several musket-carrying men. In the past the army had been careless about their horses, but no longer. More soldiers sat in small groups making it difficult for him to determine the enemy's strength. Enough. Too much.

  Silent, Gaitor slid beside him. Tension danced between them, but Panther refused to acknowledge it. He had come here to learn what he could about the army, not react to that presence, because worry cheated him of his ability to think and plan. Still, when Gaitor pointed, he couldn't stop his belly from knotting again.

  Three Seminole women, each of them holding a small child or baby, were huddled together. The women's eyes never left the armed and shabbily dressed soldiers who kept staring at them.

  "The soldiers," Panther whispered. "Study them. Did you see fewer than this?"

  "I think—yes."

  "You are sure?"

  "They's like ants, Panther. They swarm so a body can't count 'em. But—I's sure of it now. There was less before."

  That meant others of the enemy had joined those who'd been hunting the Turtle clan. "They are full of themselves," he all but mouthed. "Careless because they think they have done a great thing by capturing three women."

  "The army don' want to leave this place."

  Panther couldn't argue with that. The Turtle clan had been moving toward Piahokee's heart. Fed by torrential rains, the plants and trees grew so close together that it was nearly impossible for a man to find a path. Endless fingers of water oozed their dark way through the underbrush. Alligators, snakes, panthers, and deer lived in the great mass, but it wasn't a place for a large number of men and horses. He could pray to the gods that, except for these few women, the rest had escaped, for now.

  "What we gonna do?" Gaitor asked.

  He thought, taking time with the decision. The soft cries of despair were often lost among the army's greater sound. If he didn't look at the small, defeated group, he could tell himself that he couldn't do more than return to his village with the news that the army wasn't interested in the Egret clan, at least not now. But he couldn't keep his eyes off the women and children.

  He commanded nearly fifty warriors. This troop numbered over a hundred and might grow. Only a tastanagee who didn't care whether he saw tomorrow would order his braves to attack. Was there enough fight left in the Turtle clan that they would be willing to join their strength with the Egret clan? Could he and Gaitor find the fleeing clan? How many army men might be chasing them at this moment?

  The sound of pounding hooves muffled by water sliced through his thoughts. More soldiers were approaching, the newcomers plowing through the water with no regard to their mounts' footing. Watching, he saw they were like the ocean wave, one after another bursting out of the wilderness until they equaled in number those who were already there. He breathed openmouthed, his fingers clamped so tightly around his knife that his knuckles felt as if they might break, but he couldn't make himself relax. He tried to study the captured women, but so many riders milled around them that he could no longer see them. Gaitor hadn't moved; tension flowed between them, hot and shared.

  "The army's strength grows." Gaitor spoke so calmly that if Panther didn't know his friend, he might believe it didn't matter to him.

  Ants. The army was like ants, never-ending. He wouldn't go back for his warriors after all. Two clans' warriors couldn't defeat this many of the enemy, and he wouldn't sacrifice their lives; the three women knew this.

  Still, he couldn't make himself leave. He knew a little about how the army was run. Those with the fanciest uniforms, those who always rode instead of walking, were the leaders. The leaders were like the heads of a snake. Wherever they went, the others followed.

  But if a snake lost its head—

  Leaving Gaitor, he eased himself to the creek's edge. His body dripped water. As long as he made himself a part of the land, the foolish army men wouldn't know they were being watched. Maybe they didn't care; maybe their arrogance was that great. If he and Gaitor dared wait until dark, maybe they could drive a spear into the leader's heart.

  A dark-dressed man who sat tall in the saddle and looked arrogantly around as if this was his plantation and not Seminole land caught his eye. Several of the lounging soldiers had scrambled to their feet and were watching him, but he paid them no attention. Instead, he moved his horse first to where the small clearing became Piahokee and then kicked the animal into Hatcheelustee Creek. Water lapped near the nervous horse's belly. The man increased the distance between himself and the others. Behind him, the troops laughed and called out to each other. Some approached the women. Panther didn't care about the ant-soldiers, only this one man. If he was a general—no, not a general.

  Ignoring Gaitor's hissed warning, he heeded his screaming need and scrambled to his feet. He stood motionless, waited. Breathed and hated. After a moment, the man stopped looking around him and settled his gaze on him.

  Reddin Croon.

  "Panther!" Gaitor cried. "Damnation! What you doin?"

  What? "I want him to know I have found him."

  Gaitor grabbed his wrist and tried to pull him back into the brush with him. "Damnation! We gots to get outta here, 'afores—"

  Reddin Croon wasn't pointing him out to the others. If Panther had been a foolish man, he might have told himself that Calida's master—former master—hadn't recognized him. He knew different, knew and both relished and hated the moment.

  "I want him to fear me. To think I am a spirit."

  Heels grinding into his horse's flank, Reddin Croon started toward where he and Gaitor stood. Panther held his knife high so his enemy could see. Then as the man who'd once owned Calida, the man who carried the scar h
e had placed there, reached for his rifle, Panther spun and faded into the jungle.

  Chapter 8

  It was the middle of the night. The sounds of gentle and not too gentle snores came from the silhouetted chickees. Winter Rain stood outside the small, lopsided shelter she'd built when Panther told them this was where the Egret clan would spend the winter. She couldn't say for sure what had wakened her; maybe the truth was she didn't want to admit that fear for Panther had made sleep impossible.

  He'd been gone too long, he and Gaitor. She knew many of the women felt uneasy without their leaders, but that wasn't what caused her to strain to make sense of the night. Panther was a brave man, one who had risked his own life to rescue the big Negro who'd become like his brother. He wasn't foolish; he wouldn't allow an enemy's bullet to find him. And his Panther spirit protected him.

  But was that enough?

  Weighed down by fear, she made her way toward the storage building at the village's center. No one would mind if she used a little dried tobacco, and smoking might relax her enough that she could sleep. Not acknowledging what she was doing, she allowed her journey to take her near Calida. The foolish woman still hadn't built herself a shelter. Maybe she didn't know how to do that simple thing.

  True, Calida had to first come into possession of a knife, and knives were in short supply.

  Calida should ask Gaitor to help her. For reasons Winter Rain didn't understand, the strong, imposing Negro liked the scrawny runaway and felt protective toward her. But Gaitor hadn't had time to do anything except what Panther needed.

  Panther. Safe. Please.

  A sharp, low moan caught her attention. When it was repeated, she realized it came from Calida, who was nothing more than a small mound under a young pine. Curious, she slipped closer. Calida was having a dream, a night message from the spirits. She watched her legs and arms jerk, relax, then jerk again. She'd brought her knife with her so she could separate a little tobacco from what was in the large storage basket. If she slipped the knife into Calida's back, Panther would no longer have to concern himself with the foolish creature. He would be free to hear Winter Rain's love-whispers.

  But to kill—

  Calida gasped and sat upright. Winter Rain nearly faded into the shadows, but her curiosity held her in place. Calida first raked her fingers through her hair, then pulled her body into a tight ball. Only then did she look around. "Who—who's out there?"

  "Winter Rain."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Listening to the night."

  For several moments, Calida said nothing. Finally, sighing, she stood and looked at her. As the silent scrutiny continued, Winter Rain remembered she deliberately hadn't spoken to Calida before. More than that, she'd pretended not to understand her. "A woman should not sleep in the open," she said sternly. "Even the most lazy can build a shelter."

  "Maybe I don't want to sleep inside."

  That made no sense. Telling herself she didn't care what Calida did, or why she made a move as if to leave. But Panther looked at Calida in ways she didn't want. She had to learn more about the woman if she was going to fight her power over the man she loved. "You had a bad spirit dream," she explained without sympathy. "I heard you cry out."

  "I know. No matter how hard I try, I—you wouldn't talk to me before. I thought, well, I'm not sure what I thought. Why is it different tonight?"

  A bold question. Too bold. "Bad spirit dreams sometimes bring bad medicine to a village. I seek to know if you carry danger inside you."

  "Danger?" Calida sighed. "I don't know. Maybe."

  This wasn't right. Calida didn't belong here. The newcomer shouldn't be allowed to keep secrets. "Bad spirit dreams come to those whose souls are uneasy."

  "Uneasy? I can't forget." Calida wrapped her arms around her waist and rocked back and forth several times. "During the day, I tell myself it doesn't matter anymore. That I've gotten away from him. But my mother—at night I can't hold back my fears for her. Why did I leave her? There must have been a way I could have brought her with me. Somehow."

  "Quiet. You will wake the others. Where is your mother?"

  Calida told her. When Winter Rain prompted, Calida explained what the plantation looked like, how the slaves lived. Sensing that the runaway was still holding something back, Winter Rain continued to press. Calida's hands weren't used to hard work. What did she do at the plantation? It seemed unbelievable that a white woman needed help with her clothing, dressing and getting ready for bed, taking a bath, but she'd never looked into the eyes of a white woman so maybe they were as helpless as Calida had said. If they were, Piahokee would kill her.

  "This took all your time?" she asked when Calida fell silent. "Does a white woman have that many clothes?"

  "Some do, but Mistress Liana didn't, not many new ones anyway. She said it didn't matter because she never saw anyone."

  "This Mistress Liana. She was kind to you?"

  When Calida nodded, Winter Rain stared at her in disbelief. "Then why did you run away? Your back bears no whip marks."

  "I wouldn't have any value if I had scars."

  But there were other kinds of scars, wounds that touched the heart. Her mother's death had taught Winter Rain that. It didn't matter that she didn't want to be thinking this; the sense that she was getting close to why Calida had fled continued to grow. Maybe if she understood, she'd understand what existed between Panther and Calida. Clenching her teeth, she forced herself to squeeze the runaway's hand. "I do not understand what it is to be a slave," she said. "My father was one, but it was before I was born. He never talked about that time."

  "Is your father here?"

  "He is with Osceola. He wants to fight the army. It is all he talks about. He would rather be dead than a slave again."

  "So would I." Calida looked down at her trapped hand but didn't pull away. "You must miss him," she said softly. "Sometimes I think I can't bear being apart from my mother. Can't bear worrying about her."

  "My mother is dead." Winter Rain spoke harshly, as she always did when she talked about her mother, because it was the only way she could keep from crying. "Smallpox. Three winters ago."

  "I'm sorry. So very sorry."

  What do you know of sorrow? Your mother lives. Angry, she released Calida. "Escaped slaves brought the disease with them. If they had left us alone, my mother would be alive."

  "I'm sorry," Calida repeated and went back to hugging herself. "You were so young when she died, still a girl."

  Yes, she had been. And her father's grief had been so great that he hadn't been able to think of anything else. She'd had to cry alone.

  "I never knew my father," Calida was saying. "He was white."

  "Was he your mother's master?"

  "Yes. Whatever he wanted, he took. She couldn't fight him. If she'd tried, he would have killed her. When..."

  "When what?"

  "Nothing. Nothing. I don't want to talk about it."

  But she was going to, Winter Rain thought. Otherwise how would she know Calida's strengths and weaknesses, why Panther looked at her the way he did? "You fear so for your mother. Why did you not bring her here with you?"

  "I wanted to. Lord knows I've regretted every minute since then. But..."

  "You were in too much of a hurry? I saw you when Panther brought you here. You had no weapon, not even shoes."

  "I ran. When Master Croon killed my mistress, I knew I had to. My mother is crippled. She can barely walk." Her voice sounded flat, but emotion hummed beneath the surface.

  "Did your master raise a weapon against you?"

  "I didn't give him a chance. Winter Rain, I know what he's capable of. His violence. I looked into his eyes and saw something far worse than I'd ever seen before."

  What had she seen before? Watching Calida, sensing the emotion that boiled inside her, Winter Rain had her answer. Croon had had his own use for her. Calida had run, not just because she feared for her life, but because death in Piahokee was better than what
she'd endured.

  Calida had turned her back on Winter Rain and was staring into the distance, where night was just beginning to give way to morning. For this moment at least, it was impossible for her to hate someone who wanted nothing more from life than freedom.

  "I—I didn't know what to do," Calida whispered. "I was so scared. I begged my mother to come with me, but her leg—she said I would have to find Panther on my own. That he was my only chance."

  Panther her only chance. The compassion she'd felt for Calida faded like a dewdrop under the summer sun. Panther was hers; he had to be hers.

  She had nothing else.

  * * *

  Morning had become midday before Calida saw what she'd spent the day looking for. Panther and Gaitor stepped out of the wilderness. The sight of them—him—filled her first with relief and then a new kind of fear because she didn't want to care this much.

  Careful not to ask herself why she needed to be closer to him, she joined those gathering around them. Because they spoke in Seminole, she caught only snatches of what they were saying. She knew they'd come across a large number of army men and that the braves and Negroes had left without doing battle with them. She didn't know what had happened to the members of the Turtle clan, just that what Panther said caused many of the villagers to mutter angrily and fearfully among themselves.

  After what seemed forever, the group began breaking up. Only then did Gaitor approach her. She tried not to notice what Panther was doing, but her eyes had a mind of their own. Winter Rain was standing in front of the tastanagee, talking and gesturing urgently. Her entire being was focused on him. Her body seemed to dance toward his, then pull away.

  "There's somethin' you gots to know," Gaitor said.

  "I don't understand anything," she admitted. "You must be tired. I made some hominy. It's a little thin, but if you're hungry—"

  An almost childlike smile lit Gaitor's heavy features. Taking his hand, she led him to the food preparation area she'd set up near her bed. Because she had only one bowl, a gift from one of the Negro women, she handed it to Gaitor and told him to drink as much as he wanted. He didn't stop until he'd swallowed at least half of the soupy concoction.